


The Rich Are F**king Us

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: Class Differences, Dominance, F/F, F/M, Hypnotism, Married Couple, Mind Control, Sad Ending, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A young Manhattan couple are invited to the penthouse of their rich and powerful neighbors… and then they are hypnotized.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AOOO reader challenged me to whip up a tale where an older, late-40s couple invite the new, young couple on the block over for dinner, then hypnotizes them. My first whack at that too-good-to-pass-up premise became “Dr. Mesmero and Assistant,” which I’m releasing today.
> 
> But another idea occurred to me and I decided to tackle the same premise all over again. The second tale is “The Rich Are F**cking Us,” which, apart from the identical premise, has no relation to its predecessor.
> 
> Some good ideas are worth doing twice.
> 
> \---NickelModelTales

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

“David!  Lara!”

Marge beams as we enter her cramped little Manhattan office.  She sounded excited on the phone; she sounds positively giddy now.

We sit side-by-side in her only two chairs as she leans over her desk, eager to relay her news.  She opens her mouth...

…and her smartphone rings.  Marge looks exasperated, but tells us, “I gotta take this,” before accepting the call.

Lara and look at each other, excited but perplexed.  Marge is our Manhattan realtor, and under her guidance, we’ve looked at whopping total of twelve apartments.  Most are tiny by New Haven standards, snug but livable.  Some are tantalizing.  One or two I might be tempted to kill for.  Marge clearly has news for us, but we don’t know what to hope for.

I can’t help gazing at Lara.  My new wife.  I’m still head-over-heels in love with her.

Lara senses my eyes on her, and blushes.  “Stop it,” she grins, playfully elbowing my ribs.

She’s lovely.  She is, no lie, one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.  With an absolutely stunning complexion, deep hazel eyes, and a thin little ski-jump nose, I can’t imagine any way she could improve her gorgeous face.  She couldn’t even smile more!  She smiles constantly.

Lara is short, but thin with a ravishing figure.  She’s a hyper-competitive tennis player, and its given her powerful muscles in her calves, stomach, shoulders, and yes, her rear.  I love that rear.

Aw, I just love all of her.  I don’t mean to go on and on about how beautiful and sexy and wonderful my wife is, but I just can’t believe my luck.  Guys like me are not supposed to land princesses like her.

Marge wraps up her phone call.  Lara and I lean forward, desperate for her news.

“Well,” the realtor begins, “you guys want to guess which-“

“The Park Slope two bedroom!” Lara blurts out.

At the same time, I venture, “The Little Italy courtyard!”

Marge waves us down.  “No, no, kids.  You’re about to thank me for the rest of your lives.  Earlier today, I got the magic call from… the Crestmark people.”

Lara lets out a small scream, then clamps her hands over her mouth.  I suck in a quick breath of air.  The **_Crestmark Tower_**?  I couldn’t have heard the right.

Of course we remember the Crestmark Tower.  It’s a new forty-two story, steel-and-glass building on **_Central Park West_**.  That’s right, **_on_** the park.  The apartment was a 612 sq. ft. one-bedroom, facing north.  Tiny, but clean and spectacular.  My commute would be a brief ten-minute train ride.  We’d be near most of the museums, a good thing for Lara.  And think what a status symbol a CPW address would be…!  Even the senior partners at my new firm would be jealous.

At the time we looked at that apartment, I fell in love… but I told myself not even to think about it.  A location like that was just too much to hope for.  Out-of-town nobodies like Lara and myself can’t reach for that kind of real estate.

“Oh my God!” Lara squeaks, getting up to actually hug Marge.  “How did you…?”

The realtor hugs back, laughing.  “Oh, I didn’t do much of anything, darling.  You and David wow’ed the Crestmark co-op board with your interview.  David, you’re a starting associate at…”

“Willow Crescent Associates,” I answer.

“Yes!” Marge beams.  “See, **_that’s_** impressive.  That’s an investment firm whose name opens doors.”  She pauses.  “When do you begin there?”

“Next month,” I say.  I can’t stop grinning.

“I’ve heard that while the Crestmark Tower board is pretty stuck-up,” Marge remarks, pulling out her notebook.  “But apparently the couple who run the board has a soft spot for young couples like yourselves.  Every now and then, they let young blood into the building.”

“Oh my God,” exclaims Lara, almost bouncing in her seat.  “When can we move in?”

“Hold on,” Marge warns.  “Its not a done deal yet.”

Uh-oh.

“There are a few things that have to be settled,” says our realtor.  “The biggest is the money situation.  They want one-point-four million for the initial deposit.  Nonnegotiable.  Rent is $8,129; I can’t get that any lower.”

My heart falls, but Lara waves the concern away.

“That’s fine,” she says.  “My trust fund will cover it.”

“So that money will come from you?” Marge asks, frowning.

Lara nods, sitting next to me again.

“Hmm,” Marge muses, calculating.  “Normally I’d advise against only one of you putting in money… but considering the location…”

“Its fine,” Lara insists, and takes my hand.

She’s right to be unconcerned.  If the financial projects on my earning power are correct, I should be pulling in mid-six figures once I make junior partner.  Money we spend now will be replenished in the future.

Marge makes a note, then presses on:  “Now, Lara, you are **_not_** employed, correct?”

“Correct,” Lara replies apprehensively.

Our realtor frowns.  “That might be a snag,” she muses.  “They usually like to see two incomes.  What do you plan to do?”

“I’m hoping to curate at a museum.  Or gallery,” Lara replies, a little nervously.

“But you haven’t secured a position?” Marge asks pointedly.

“Uh, no,” admits Lara.

Marge chews her thumbnail.  She shrugs.  “Okay, here’s what we do,” she announces, picking up her smartphone.  “I say we go for broke.  I’ll tell them you want the apartment, and we’ll see.”

While Marge chats with a Crestmark person, Lara and I sit on pins and needles.  I am doing my best to brace for the worst and try not to read too much into every inflection in my realtor’s voice.  I know Lara is in worse shape than me.

“Hold, please,” Marge says politely, then taps a button.  To Lara and me, she says urgently, “they want another picture of you two.  Outside my office, hurry!  Leave your coats!”

The three of us scamper into the hallway.  Marge positions Lara and me under a skylight, then steps back.  “They want a full body shot of the both of you,” she explains.

That’s odd.  I push questions out of my mind as Lara and I pose.  Marge captures the moment, then sends the pict.

There is an agonizing minute while we wait.  Marge raptly listens to her phone.

Then her face lights up in joy.  _You got it!_ she mouths to me and Lara.

My wife and I erupt into shrieks of joy and triumph.  The Crestmark Tower!  I can’t believe success is rewarding me so quickly.

*************

Things happen very quickly after that.  Once the paperwork is signed and finalized, Lara assumes the magnetic door keys and moves our three suitcases into our new home.  It is smaller than I remember, but I don’t care.  Lara and I will make due.

We say thank you to Marge, and then I am on a bus back to New Haven to get our stuff into a rental van.  We’ve already said our good-byes, so this mission is accomplished in less than a day.  While I am away, Lara splurges on a new bed, mattress, and couch.  The rest of our furniture will be from Ikea until I can earn some serious money.  Shouldn’t be long.

Move-in is a nightmare, but the Crestmark Tower people find day laborers to haul our boxes up the freight elevator.  I tip them what I can.

Lara and I blink and… within the span of four days, **_we are Manhattanites!_**   I can’t believe it.

There’s still a ton to do, but we celebrate by getting Chinese take-out, bundling up in our coats, and picnicking in the park.  Just across the street from our new building.  Wow.  I’m in awe of our luck.

I hardly care when, three minutes into our meal, a heavy storm cloud rolls in off the Hudson River.  The neighborhood is momentarily shrouded in darkness.

*************

The next day, we meet the true heart and soul of the Crestmark Tower.

Lara and I are in the lobby.  Hector, the Head Doorman, shakes his firmly head at us.

“You folks were told,” he says, not hiding his annoyance.  “Two weeks after paperwork and deposit, **_then_** you get a mail key.”

“Are you telling me,” I say, exasperated, “that I’m not going to get my own mail for two weeks?”

Lara puts a hand on my arm, willing me to calm down.

Hector’s sour expression grows longer.  “That is not what I’m saying,” he drawls.  “You can collect your mail from the super’s office between the hours of noon and four.  Just call ahead and-“

“I can’t be at the super’s office between noon and four!” I fume.

Hector is about to respond when the revolving doors spin, and a thin and spry woman appears from the street.  The two cleaning people immediately stop chatting and hurry to find something else to do.  A burst of cold air from outside momentarily chills us.

This woman is thin and lean, and I’m guessing she’s in her late forties.  She is very beautiful and must be in **_incredible_** shape.  In fact, she is wearing a sleek runner’s outfit which could be a collaboration between by Christian Dior and NASA.  Even her shoes and runner’s scarf match.

The woman’s hair is pulled up into a very tight bun, save for one long stand which curves about the left side of her face.  Her delicate cheekbones seem almost sharp in the soft lobby light.  And her face, while a little etched with age, is nonetheless very striking.  I am drawn to her sharp eyes more than any other feature.  Her lips are pulled tight, but full and red.  I also notice her hands; thin, strong, firmly held.  There’s something about this woman’s gaunt face and body language which reminds me of a Siamese cat.

The woman glides in, glancing about the expansive lobby with an air of displeasure.  Her eyes do not wander; they immediately zero in on specific targets, such as the floral arrangement, the uniformed attendant behind the front desk, the long carpet, the reception area.  Her eyes never shoot in our direction.

“ _Oh Dios,_ ” Hector mutters.

Without so much as a glance at me or Lara, he hurries over to the woman’s side.  She has stopped in front of the flowers, inspecting them closely.

“Phalaenopsis orchids, again, Hector?” the woman asks, gingerly cupping one of the delicate blooms in her hand.  The tips of her mouth are turned down.

“Mrs. Fairchilde,” says Hector, a little too quickly, “I trust you had a good run?”

Lara jabs me in the ribs.  “My God,” she whispers to me.  “That’s **_Helen Fairchilde_**.  I never thought we’d meet her!”

The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it.

“You’re dodging the point, Hector,” Mrs. Fairchilde chides.  “Our contract with Zamanti’s specified something more tasteful and dignified.  And something that can hold a bloom longer than six hours.  What will you do when these are wilting at four o’clock?  You’re supposed to be on top of these matters.”

Hector nods.  “Yes, Mrs. Fairchilde.”

The lean woman gestures to the front desk without actually looking in that direction.  I’m impressed when the young attendant leaps forward with a bundle of letters, tied with a white ribbon.  Mrs. Fairchilde accepts it without so much as a glance; she is still not finished with Hector.

“Also,” she comments, “the façade still needs tending.  I thought the new people, who are they, the-“

“Aletio Masons,” Hector supplies.

“Yes, the Alerios were to be here this week with scaffolding?”

Hector forces himself to nod.  “I’ll make some phone calls, Mrs. Fairchilde.”

“Please do.”  Mrs. Fairchilde peels off the white ribbon, quickly leafing through her mail.  “The fundraiser is in less than a week, Hector, I can’t have the committee or the donors stepping through a construction site out there.  Get it done.”

Mrs. Fairchilde never once raises her voice or uses a demeaning tone.  If I could only hear the tenor of her voice without knowing what she actually was saying, I’d assume she was pleasantly making small talk.  Nevertheless, Hector squirms while in her presence.  He looks miserable.

I’ve noticed something else; the woman doesn’t make eye contact.  Her gaze is fixed on objects; the chandelier, the satin drapes, the flowers, the window settings, the envelopes.  Never on people.

“Anything else?” Mrs. Fairchilde asks.  She has plucked out half of her mail, and she hands the unimportant discards to Hector.

“No, Mrs. Fairchilde.”

“Very good,” she says airily, and moves in our direction.

Lara squeezes me arm, as if to say, _Here she comes!_

Mrs. Fairchilde approaches.  Her eyes flick up and rest on Lara and me.  In a split second, we are scanned and evaluated.

“Well now,” Mrs. Fairchilde says, arching one eyebrow, “whom do we have here?”

I’m not sure she’s addressing us.

Hector materializes at the woman’s elbow.  “These are the Roths, Mrs. Fairchilde.  Just moved into 11C.”

“Ah, of course.”  Mrs. Fairchilde smiles, a thin, well-practiced smile.  “David and Lara.  Welcome to the Crestmark Tower.  We were so pleased to receive your application.”

She extends a thin hand.  I shake it, then Lara.  Her grip is brief but tight.

“Thank you,” I say.

There’s something about this woman’s gaze which makes you feel thrown off-balance.  I’m reminded of my stern grandmother, who could tell if you had stolen cookies with just a glance at your face.  You felt exposed, transparent before those piercing eyes.

Standing before Mrs. Fairchilde, I am suddenly aware that I need a haircut.  I’m wearing my father’s overcoat, the one with the shabby elbows and the faint stain on the lapel.  I’m also wearing old sneakers.  I wish I’d spent a little more time making myself presentable.

“How do you like the building?” Mrs. Fairchilde asks Lara and me.  Her voice and expression are distant, as if she doesn’t really care what we say next.

“Its lovely,” Lara gushes.

“Yes,” I quickly agree.

“Well, we try to keep a tidy home,” says Mrs. Fairchilde.  She half-smiles, if only for a second.  “Hector is taking good care of you, I trust.”

“He is,” Lara assures her.

“Yes,” I agree.  “Except…”

Lara freezes.  Behind Mrs. Fairchilde’s elbow, Hector cringes.

“Yes?” Mrs. Fairchilde asks, eyeing me closely.

“Except we are having some trouble getting our mail key,” I explain.

“Oh?”  Mrs. Fairchilde half-turns toward Hector, but doesn’t actually look at him.

“Two weeks after paperwork and deposit,” the Head Doorman says nervously.

“Ah,” acknowledges Mrs. Fairchilde.  To Lara and me, she says, “Well, rules are rules.  I’m sure things will work out.”  She pauses.

“We must have dinner sometime, the two of you, Malcolm, and myself,” Mrs. Fairchilde tells Lara and me.  “I like to get to know all of the tenants.”

“That… would be lovely,” Lara stammers.

Mrs. Fairchilde tightly smiles again.  There’s something about this woman’s smile.  It is brief and highly controlled.  And she never seems to smile from her eyes.

*************

“My God!” Lara exclaims, reading from her smartphone in the living room.

I am in the tiny bedroom, screwing together the last of the bookshelves.  I am sweaty and in a bad mood, and I’m not certain the fruits of my labor will actually support books.

“What?” I grumble.

“I’m reading that profile piece the Times did on Helen Fairchilde,” Lara informs me.  “Do you know the woman has won the Boston and Philadelphia marathons?  **_And_** she’s on the boards of the Met and Julliard?”

“I thought you were arranging the kitchen,” I grumbled.

“Yeah, I am,” Lara assures me, although she’s sitting on our couch.  “It says here:  Her parents met in the Ford administration… and her family is still well-connected on K Street!”

“Yes,” I grunt, sliding the bookshelf against the wall.  “Very impressive.”

“Jesus Christ,” exclaims my wife, “from her picture here, you’d think she was six feet tall.  I thought she looked remarkably short, didn’t you?”

I don’t know about that.  From the way she freaked out Hector, I thought Helen Fairchilde seemed gigantic.

“That’s great,” I say.  “Why don’t you ask her if she can come down here and arrange the kitchen?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Lara playfully teases me.  She throws me an endearing look.  “We’re in New York now.  Its nice to meet our building’s resident celebrity.”

“Old Lady Fairchilde’s a celebrity?” I ask, surprised.

“She’s not an old lady,” says Lara, her eyes glued on her phone again.  “She’s forty-nine.  And she’s in much better shape than you!”

“We’ll see about that,” I vow, then groan as I lug two book boxes out of the way.  My back hurts.

“Her husband is Malcolm Fairchilde,” Lara tells me.  “CEO of a multinational bank.  There’s a picture of him here.  God, he’s just as wiry and chiseled as she is!”

I need a break.  I flop onto the couch next to Lara.  “Let me see.”

She shows me her phone.  There, in a tiny photo, is Helen Fairchilde and a man in a tuxedo, perhaps attending the opera?  The couple look rich and refined.  The man is strikingly handsome with big, perfect white teeth.

“He’s hot, right?” Lara asks innocently.

I pretend to be offended.  “You trading me in?”

“Of course not, dear, your cock is much bigger,” Lara promises me, then snorts with immature laughter.

I grab her and start tickling.  She shrieks and squirms in my grasp.

I love how her eyes sparkle in playful moments like these.  I’m about to kiss her when there is a knock on the door.  Lara and I freeze.

I scramble to the door and wrench it open.  Standing there is the young attendant from the lobby.

“Here, sir,” he says, handing me a small, white box.

He lingers long enough to glance at the mess that is our apartment, then spins on his heels.

“Huh,” I say, shutting the door.

I hand the box to Lara, who opens it.  “Oh man,” she says.

Inside are two copies of our mail key, plus a small, handwritten note:  _I hope the enclosed helps your transition to the Crestmark a little easier.  Your neighbor,  --Helen Fairchilde_

*************

The following Monday, I start work at Willow Crescent Associates.  The firm is nestled into a massive skyscraper on Sixth Avenue, not that far from Carnegie Hall, Times Square, and Columbus Circle.  I arrive at eight AM, and there is already a deep queue for the elevators.  I feel like a guppy in a school of millions.

After I sign a lot of HR paperwork, I am introduced to Frank Von Weise, a balding, overweight lump of a man who is to be my supervisor.  Frank is dressed in a custom-tailored double pressed suit, with the red power tie to match.  He barely makes eye contact when we first shake hands.

“You’ll be on my account,” he barks.  “Get situated in your office, then log into the Portfolio Manager and get familiar with the technology stocks.  They’ve been underperforming by 15.3%.  The managers aren’t happy.  You need to tell me why.”

And that’s all the direction I get.  For the next seven hours, I am at my computer, fumbling with passwords, user manuals, and the database software, trying to figure out the Willow Crescent systems.  I really wish someone would show me what I need to do.

*************

I stumble home that night after 10:00 PM, my brain in sling.

Lara is in her boxer shorts and a sports bra.  Hot.  She’s curled up on the couch, eating a yogurt and watching TV on her phone.  I’m pleased to see twelve more boxes have been opened.

“Baby!” Lara beams and hurries over to throw her arms around my neck.  We kiss.

“Long night,” she comments ruefully as I look for a spot to sit down.  “You want me to order some Thai?”

I nod.  “How was your day?” I ask wearily, happy to talk about anything but my office.

“So-so,” Lara replies.  “I found the china set we got as a wedding gift from your folks, those are all put away.  I also called four museums, but nothing yet.”

I nod again.

“Oh…” my wife says, snapping her fingers.  “Almost forgot!”

She hands me a small, scented card, printed in gold ink:

_Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm and Helen Fairchilde request the presence of Mr. and Mrs. David and Lara Roth at their apartment for dinner_

_Friday the 17 th, 7:00 PM_

_Informal dress_

“Jesus,” I say.  “They could have just sent a text, right?”

“The Fairchildes don’t text,” Lara informs me.  “Oh, look at the back.”

I flip the card over.  There, in Helen Fairchilde’s neat, orderly handwriting is a note:  _Dear David and Lara, So enjoyed meeting you earlier, hope to see you again soon.  Your neighbor, --Helen Fairchilde_

“Wow,” I comment.  “Do you think I’ll need an engraver if I want them to pass the potatoes?”

“Wiseass,” giggles Lara, and sticks out her tongue.  I’m exhausted and slightly grumpy, but I stick mine out at her too.

“You know,” Lara says thoughtfully, “Helen probably knows a lot of museum people.  She’d be a good contact.”

*************

By Tuesday lunchtime, I’ve figured out how to pull up the tech stocks from the Willow Crescent software.  Frank is right; this part of the fund is sluggish.  Tech is hot right now, so why are we so down?

Not knowing what else to do, I start making notes.  In business school, I usually pushed my way through case studies by making books of notes.  Its time-consuming, but eventually my brain clicks in and I see the bigger pattern.  I hope that happens soon.

I’m an hour in, when my phone rings.  Its Frank.

“In my office, David,” he growls, then disconnects.

I find Frank at his desk, gobbling his way through a massive sandwich.  He gestures that I’m to look at his monitor, so I join him.

“Check this out,” Frank says with his mouth half-full.

He’s watching YouTube.  In the video, a king cobra slithers through short grass toward a poor mouse, who stares transfixed at the predator.  The snake’s progress is steady, and it never releases the rodent from its intent gaze for a second.  The mouse twitches.  But doesn’t run.

I want to look away myself.  But… too late.  The cobra strikes.  The mouse is devoured.

“You know why the mouse can’t run?” asks Frank, between bites.  “Because the snake executes its approach **_flawlessly_**.”

“Food for thought…” he says, setting down his sandwich.  “You seem like a nice guy, David.  But here at Willow Crescent, you’ve gotta be ruthless and flawless.  Those are the two words I want you to tattoo on your brain starting today:  Ruthless and Flawless.  You got me?”

“Yessir,” I promise.

Frank clicks on a video of a cobra attacking a mother bird.  “Which reminds me,” he says while picking up his sandwich, “how are you coming with those stock evals?  I need to know how to fix the tech balance, pronto.”

“I… need more time,” I say honestly.

The cobra lunges, hitting the mother bird flawlessly in the breast.

“Get on it,” Frank says through his food.  He sounds annoyed.

*************

By Friday, I have billed about seventy-five hours.  I have drawn up a detailed profile on every tech stock, and I am now closer to understanding why our stocks are group losers while the rest of the market is roaring.

But stock performance analysis will have to wait.  Tonight is dinner at the Fairchildes’.

I sneak out of work “early,” meaning 6:00 PM and subway… er, **_train_** home.  There’s just enough time to dash into the shower.

“Hurry, hurry!” Lara coaxes me when I hop out.  She is putting on earrings; there’s barely enough room for the two of us in the bathroom.

She looks beautiful.  Her strapless dress is light blue, with a dark sash circling her waist.  Her back is exposed, and I find it sexy to peak back there and see her shoulderblades.  She must have spent hours on putting her hair up; nothing is out of place.  And just the right amount of makeup.

Lara smiles at me, excited for this evening.  I can’t help falling a little more in love with her.

We kiss.

“Now get your butt in gear!” my wife insists.  “We have to be there in fifteen minutes!”

*************

 


	2. Chapter 2

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man and a woman, and they take full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

Lara and I are riding up the elevator.  The invitation said “Informal dress,” but somehow I suspect the Fairchildes have a vastly different definition of “informal” than I do.  I’m wearing one of my client-presentation suits and my best shoes.

I am gripping a bottle of Ulysses Cabernet Sauvignon 2012, the only expensive wine I own.  I hope the Fairchildes like red.  What else can you give a couple who are worth hundreds of millions of dollars?

Lara is watching the floor numbers change on the elevator panel.  She looks excited.  We’re past the 30th floor, which is higher than we’ve ever been allowed to go before.  The Fairchildes, of course, live on the top three floors of the building.

Lara turns to me as if a sudden, naughty thought occurred to her.  “What if Helen and Malcolm are **_vampires_**?” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

“Oh, stop.”  I grin, despite myself.

The elevator reaches 41, the penthouse level, and the doors slide open.  Lara and I step off into a wide chamber, lit by two small crystal chandeliers.  To our right is an open balcony overlooking Central Park.  At this time of night, the park is blacked out, but we can see the Upper East Side twinkling in the distance.

Lara exhales slowly, impressed.  I’m blown away too.

We hear a door open to our left, and turn.  A young maid has opened the double bronze doors which must lead to chez Helen and Malcolm.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roth?” she asks politely.  “Welcome to the Fairchildes’.  I’m Giselle.”

We are ushered into a second foyer, decorated in oak and crystal.  I hear the sounds of a fountain somewhere in the apartment.  The maid leads us on, through a miniaturized ballroom, and down a corridor.  I notice a lot of what I’m guessing is ancient Indian art on the walls.

And then we are led into a study.  The walls here are lined with custom bookcases and more art.  All the furniture is leather-bound, and looks brand-new.  We hear the recording of a string quartet, and I half-expect to turn and find an actual string quartet playing in the corner.  A revolving staircase circles upward at the back of the room.  The windows here look out over the Hudson.  You can see barges chugging down the black water.

“I’ll notify Mr. and Mrs. Fairchilde that you are here,” Giselle says, then disappears.

Lara and I are alone in what must be the more exquisitely decorated room I’ve ever seen.

“Wow,” Lara swoons.  “I could learn to live like this.”

I’m about to reply when we hear footfalls on the staircase.  Descending from above to greet us mere mortals are the Magnificent Fairchildes.

Mrs. Fairchilde- er, **_Helen_** is dressed in a black party dress, perhaps made from Chinese silk?  I don’t know fabrics.  The outfit encircles her entire neck, washes down her torso, hugs her hips nicely, and tapers off above the knees.  Her arms are bare.  Once again, I’m impressed at how fit she is.  That dress hides nothing, but Helen has the body to rock it.  Her hair is even more perfectly-arranged than Lara’s.  She wears glittering diamonds on her earlobes and around her throat.  With her sharp eyes and neutral expression, she is both icy and beautiful.

The man behind her must be Malcolm Fairchilde.  He is not much taller than his wife.  Thin, compact, and moving with grace and confidence, Malcolm doesn’t so much walk as he strides slowly, projecting command and authority as he moves.  He is in an ink-black tuxedo, so dark, I barely see the pockets or lapels.  I immediately feel underdressed.

Malcolm is handsome in the way the best politicians are.  Sure, his face is quite attractive – if you swing that way – with a square jaw, well-proportioned blue eyes, a nose that is both thin and pointy, and thick hair I will kill for when I am forty-nine.  His teeth are even whiter in person than in that photograph.

“David, Lara,” Helen smiles, in her disconnected, not-really-very-warm way.  “How lovely to see you.”

“Yes, welcome,” Malcolm beams.  His voice is deep and rich.  At least his emotions seem more genuine than his wife’s.

Our two hosts approach us.  Helen and Lara sort of hug, but not really.  Malcolm grips my hand, giving it one single, firm pump.  I awkwardly hand him the wine.

“This is for you,” I say in as dignified a voice I can manage.

Malcolm smiles, accepts the bottle, and then breaks into a wider grin.

“I hope you like it,” I add.

“Its very good,” he assures me.

When I look a little puzzled, Malcolm explains:  “I own the vineyard.”

Oh.

There is a soft clicking as Malcolm presses a button on a remote in his pocket.  Another maid appears.

“Adele, tell the chef to switch to the venison.  Let this breathe, then pour four glasses,” Malcolm orders, handing her my bottle.  The maid accepts and vanishes.

Lara, meanwhile, is admiring a painting.  “This is… a Lohse-Wächtler?” she asks Helen, in surprise.

Helen smiles, but, again, I’m not sure she’s expressing pleasure.  “It is,” she murmurs.

Lara lets out a long breath in sheer amazement.  “Banned by the Nazis,” she explains sadly to me.  “A crime against art and humanity.”

“I’ve lent it to various galleries, from time to time,” Helen comments.

Lara sees her opening.  “I’ve been hoping we could talk about that,” she begins.  “Do you-“

Helen nods once.  “After dinner,” she says in a soft but firm voice.

*************

Our meal is served by the wait staff in a dining room one floor up.  The heavy table is longer than our apartment (I knew it would be) and the setting overlooks downtown through an enormous bay of windows pointed southward.  From up here, you can see Rockefeller Center, the Empire State, Freedom Tower… all of the city.  Wow.

Thankfully, we all sit on the western side of the table.  I was afraid we’d be seated on opposite ends.  Somehow I doubt Helen and Malcolm ever use this room when there aren’t guests over.

And I’ve never had venison before.  Malcolm, Helen, Lara, and I are served the tiniest portions on ginormous plates; perhaps a five inches of steak, six roasted asparagus, a dab of mashed potatoes, and garnish.  Its delicious, but I am hungrier when I finish than when I sat down.

I notice that Helen and Malcolm eat very little.  Helen, in particular, seems only interested in the wine.  Maybe they **_are_** vampires.

Lara does her best to strike up conversation, but mostly Helen asks us probing questions about our lives.  She knows I work for Willow Crescent.  (“They’re an excellent firm,” Malcolm comments appreciatively.)  There are also questions about how Lara and I met, and her family background.

Helen listens politely as we try to regale our hosts.  I can’t tell if she’s actually filing all of this information away or she is bored and hiding it well.  I am more nervous than ever.

There are two small statues of elephants on either side of the room.  During a lull, I indicate one, and say, “So… did either of you ever travel to India?”

“I did,” Helen responds.  She folds her napkin with her delicate hands.  “In my college days.  I was actually a meditation student.”

“Really?” Lara asks.  She, like me, is scraping her plate.

“Oh yes,” Helen replies.  For once, she seems forthcoming.  “I studied under a number of swamis.  In various disciplines.”

“Those were her wild and free days,” Malcolm tells me.  He seems amused.

But Helen does not.  “Yes, quite,” she says in a clipped tone.  “But I owe all my success to those years.  Meditation has taught me focus, discipline… how the mind works.  Invaluable.”

I nod, as this topic seems to have run its course.  God, these people are weird.

Malcolm, perhaps sensing my discomfort, puts both hands on the table.  “Well,” he says brightly, “Helen and I have an after-dinner activity for you two.  Are you game?”

Lara and I exchange surprised glances.

*************

Malcolm leads us back through the penthouse, this time remaining on the upper floor.  Helen walks behind us, and although she’s in high heels, I can barely hear her footfalls on the hardwood floors.

We move down a softly-lit corridor, also lined with more Indian art.  Malcolm makes small talk, but I am distracted.  Unlike the lower floor, there seems to be no-one else on this level.  What’s up with that?

Malcolm turns into a sunken room, lined with a curtains and a Renaissance mural painted behind three marble columns.  There are leather couches facing inward, and in the center of the room, what looks like a bed.  Except there is no head, no foot, no pillows.  Just what appears to be a mattress and satin sheets.  Maybe its another fancy couch, one without a back?  I’m thrown.

Someone has lit incense.  I can’t see it, but the scent is unmistakable.

Helen closes the double panel doors behind us.

“This is our ‘talking room,’” Malcolm explains, in response to Lara’s and my quizzical expressions.  “We like to invite guests back here after dinner.  It makes for a more relaxing atmosphere.”

I think, _…okay._   Why can’t we talk in the dining room?  Or back downstairs?  Or any other room that doesn’t give me this sudden creepy feeling?

Helen moves to stand before me.  “You asked about my meditation studies, David,” Helen says softly.  “Here, let me show you something useful.”

She steps right up to me, then positions me in front of a couch.  Why would she do that?  Should I sit down?  I can smell her perfume.  She is… intoxicating.

“Give me your hand,” Helen says calmly.  “Stretch it out flat.”

I offer my right hand.  She takes it with her left hand, turning it upwards toward the ceiling.  Then, placing just the tips of her fingers in my palm, she begins to trace a circle.  Then again.  And again.  Her fingers are barely touching my skin; I can feel the heat of her more than anything else.

“Now look at me,” she instructs.

I do.  She’s already gazing at me, and I feel transfixed.  Her fingers continue to move around, around, around.

“Keep looking at my eyes,” says Helen in a quiet, even tone.  “Imagine that in your hand, right now, a ball of golden energy is beginning to form.  A golden ball of pure energy is beginning to form.  This is _prana_.  Feel it grow and warm you.”

Its incredible, but I do feel warmth and energy in the center my hand.  How is she doing this?  I really want to glance down.

“Keep looking into my eyes, David,” Helen warns me.  “Look deep and feel the energy expand and bathe you.”

Is she trying to hypnotize me?  I’m confused.  There is **_literally_** something warm and tingly and glowing in my hand, but I… I can’t look down.

“Look deeper, David,” Helen murmurs.  Did she step closer?  Her eyes are growing larger.  My arms feel longer than usual and suddenly I can’t tell if my feet are beneath me.  The room seems huge and expansive, as if the walls are shrinking away from us.

I can see Lara and Malcolm in my peripheral vision, but they are becoming colorless blobs.  Helen’s eyes are growing before me.  The lights seem to be dimming.

I realize; I can’t look away, nor can I move.  Well, I think I could move if I really wanted to, but… I don’t seem to have the will.

As if sensing my resistance, Helen grips my hand a little tighter.  Her grip isn’t at all painful, but I lack the strength to break it.

Helen’s voice drones on, and I am losing track of her individual instructions.  Besides, this energy thing in my hand is growing and growing, pulsing with a rich life that feels wonderful on my skin.  I wish I could look at it; it feels incredible.

“And now, David,” Helen tells me, “I will count from one to five.  As I do, the golden energy grows stronger and more invigorating, more powerful with every count.  On five, you will feel this power energy enter your body.  The moment it does, your eyes will close and you will fall into a deep, restful sleep, aware of all the instructions and suggestions I am about to give you.”

There is something vaguely sinister about all of this, but I am too far gone to really object.  Helen begins counting, and I am dimly aware that she is bringing my right hand to my chest, as if I am about to say the Pledge of Allegiance.  All I know is that I can feel the golden energy approach my body.  I think Helen is no longer tracing that circle with her fingers… but I can’t tell anymore.

Helen just said the number “four.”  My hand is nearly on my chest.  I feel my lids blink, ensnared and lost in those huge eyes swimming before my vision.

“Five,” Helen murmurs.

Her voice is the barest whisper, but it fills me like a thunderclap.  At the same time, she places my hand square between my pectorals.  I feel the golden energy seep into my body.

Oh…wow!  All at once, my eyes are closing, and I feel as if I have been bathed in pure sunlight.  Every muscle I have lets go in some kind of joy.

Helen pushes me, slightly, and I feel myself falling backwards…  falling… falling…

And then I feel my body crumple onto the couch.  At the same time, I feel like I am floating in the center of the sky, naked and bathed in a golden wonderfulness.  I never want to let this go.

From a distance, I hear Lara say, “Wow… what did you do to him?”  She sounds slightly worried.

I marvel at the sensation of floating in the heavens while still being able to dimly listen in on the goings-on in Helen’s and Malcolm’s talking room.  I am so content, I hardly care about anything.

“The boy is asleep, my dear,” I hear Malcolm’s voice explain.  “He’ll awake later, feeling wonderful and reinvigorated.”

“He’s okay… right?” Lara asks.

“Of course,” Malcolm assures her.

“Lara,” Helen says calmly.  “Look at me, please.”

I hear Helen talking in a stream of comments and suggestions.  It doesn’t sound like she is talking to me, and I am too far gone to care about anything.  Besides, I am drifting further and deeper into this wonderful golden feeling.

I hope I can stay like this forever…

*************

My awareness fades at this point.  Somewhere, far away, I am aware of Helen speaking.  Not Malcolm.  Not Lara.  Just Helen, speaking calmly and in a steady stream.  I am too unconcerned to worry about what she is actually saying.

No, I am experiencing the weirdest, most fanciful out-of-body experience I ever thought possible.  At Yale, I once knew a guy who did mushrooms.  He invited me over a few times, and yes, I did some ‘shrooms with him and his hippie girlfriend.  Those moments were incredible, but never did I feel as disconnected as I do right now.

I feel as if I’m floating through the sky, my body expanding and dissolving in all directions.  I’m not sure my arms and legs are really there.  Or maybe I have ten arms and twenty legs?  I can’t tell, and what’s more, I don’t care.  My thoughts are quiet… this is like a special, wonderful dream.

Later, I hear Helen speak to me again.  Her voice is small and gentle, but it cuts into my mind.  I listen, and I want to do everything she is commanding me to do.

And then she is counting.  The sky-sensation begins to fade, and I feel my arms and legs and body materialize.  The Fairchildes’ talking room seems to form around me.  Helen sounds like she’s standing before me, not miles away.

Helen reaches her final number.

The final wisps of the sky-dream pop and vanish.  My eyes slowly open; my eyelids feel like lead.  What’s going on?

My reality reassembles itself before my wits.  Oh, yes, I remember.

I’m at home.  At least, I think I’m at home.  I’m sitting on our couch.  Its late at night.  Very late.  I’m by myself and I don’t have work tomorrow.  I can stay up as late as I want.

Before me is the TV.  Well, this is a special TV.  This is a unique 3D television where there isn’t a screen.  No, watching this TV is like watching a play, all unfolding right before you.  I blink, struggling to focus on the hyperreal image before me.

What am I watching so late at night?  I remember.  I found a porn channel; this is a sex movie.  There’s an actress before me who looks exactly like Lara.  She’s wearing that same blue dress that Lara wore to the Fairchildes’.  She stand perfectly, still, her arms hanging at her side.

Before the Lara-actress is an actor who looks exactly like Malcolm.  Malcolm has discarded his suit jacket, but otherwise he is just how I remember him.  He stands toe-to-toe with Lara.  As I watch, Malcolm bends forward and begins deep-kissing Lara.  She automatically kisses him back.  His long fingers curl around her arms, and he pulls her forward.

A Helen-actress is slowly circling the couple, running two seductive fingers over Lara’s body.  She moves directly behind Lara and unzips the younger woman’s dress, then carefully pushes the garment off Lara’s shoulders.  Lara doesn’t seem to notice as the dress flutters from her body, down her legs, onto the floor.

I’m getting aroused.  This 3D technology is so amazing.  Its like I’m actually watching three people about to have sex before me.

As Malcolm and Lara continue kissing, Malcolm’s hands glide over Lara’s smooth skin to touch and then caress her breasts.  Meanwhile, Helen steps closer, her fingertips exploring all the muscles in Lara’s exposed back and backside.  Helen places soft kisses on the younger woman’s neck.

And then she is whispering something in Lara’s ear.  She snaps her fingers.

Lara comes to life.  She steps out of the embrace, kicking off her high heels.  In one slow, seductive movement, she slides her panties off her hips, then down to her knees.  Gravity brings them down the rest of the way.  Lara is now completely naked.

I grin in a stupid way.  Man, this movie is hot.

I am fully erect, and out of the blue, it occurs to me that I am supposed to masturbate.  Without thinking, I unzip myself, and push my belt, pants, and undies down.  There is a silken handkerchief that has been placed on my belly – how nice!  I wrap my erect member in it and begin stroking.  Slowly.

Lara, looking stunning, walks to that weird bed/couch thing and climbs onto it.  She remains on all fours, and flexes her back, like a cat stretching.  Her ass pushes out, and I admire her tennis-shaped gluteus maximus in the soft lighting.

Helen and Malcolm are watching her like wolves eyeing a lamb.  Helen has reached around behind her neck and is unzipping her own dress.  I watch as she peels out of the delicate fabric.  Her lean body is perfect, absolutely flawless.  I can see every muscle as her dress descends.

Wearing only high heels, Helen stalks forward, crumpling Lara’s blue dress beneath her.  The older woman places an appreciative left hand on Lara’s buttock, admiring it, but also lifting it up slightly.  Her right hand glides between Lara’s legs, seeking the younger woman’s lips.

I see Lara’s eyes roll close and her mouth drop open as Helen’s fingers begin to pleasure her.  Lara looks paralyzed; her arms and legs tremble slightly, but she cannot move.

Malcolm, meanwhile, is walking in a slow orbit around the two women.  He throws aside his bow tie, his cufflinks, his crisp white shirt.  His eyes are narrow, focused.  As Helen plays with Lara and Lara gasps in pleasure, Malcolm studies the scene with a hawklike gaze.

The man is possibly as lean and muscled as his wife.  Now I know why Malcolm eats so little; I can see he has no body fat.

The older man removes his shoes and then everything below the waist.  He is so erect.  He climbs on the bed/couch, directly facing Lara.

Oh man, this is a great porno.  I’m yanking myself with glee and really having a good time!

Helen, watching both of her sex partners closely, accelerates her tickling of the incapacitated Lara.  The actress who looks just like my wife begins to pant and moan and tremble really more.  Her face contorts.  She’s close.

“Now!” Helen barks, and smacks Lara’s butt.

Lara cries out, cumming.  Her arms and legs fail her, and she tumbles onto the strange mattress.  She convulses as her orgasm pulses through her.

Wordlessly, Helen and Malcolm seize Lara and roll her onto her back.  Helen gently pushes Lara’s legs open, her mouth heading for Lara’s pussy.  At the same time, Malcolm lies on his side and guides Lara’s lips to his cock.  I can’t see him enter her from this angle, but I don’t have to.

In fact, all I can see now is Malcolm’s naked body, from behind.  Helen has lowered herself into a half kneeling positions.  All I can see of Lara are her legs, shaking slightly as she services and is serviced.  Malcolm’s hips move back and forth in swift, savage jerks.

I hear Lara moan, even though her mouth is full.

It is hard to know who cums next.  Helen, certainly enjoying herself, seems to be feeding off Lara’ pussy.  I see Lara’s left leg kick slightly and she momentarily loses control of her muscles.  Her delighted groaning gets louder.  Malcolm grunts and sighs as he cums too.  His hips instantly slow down.

Oh man…  My own orgasm has arrived.  I almost didn’t notice.  I close my eyes, smiling, as I feel the hot stickiness fill the handkerchief wrapped around my tip.  Jerking off into silk… it’s a first for me, but if you can afford it, I highly recommend the experience.

I lean back, enjoying my own climax and the sounds of other, attractive people having sex.  Oh, this is good.  I smile lopsidedly.

When I force my eyes open again, the porno is still going on strong.  Malcolm and Helen are now rearranging the scene, with Lara meekly allowing herself to be positioned again.  Helen has climbed onto the mattress, and now she is on her back, her legs open.  Malcolm spins Lara back onto her hands and knees, and thrusts Lara’s head at Helen’s waiting vagina.  Helen guides Lara the rest of the way in, and without having to be told, Lara starts licking.

Meanwhile, Malcolm, up on his knees, moves directly behind the kneeling Lara, forcing himself between her legs.  He is still very hard.  Dimly, I wonder if the Malcolm-actor took some kind of chemical stimulants?  No-one can stay that erect immediately after receiving oral.  Whatever.

Malcolm calmly aligns his pelvis with Lara’ rear.  His hands lovingly caress her hips and buttocks, and I watch him point his erect cock directly at her pussy.  He pushes himself forward, just an inch or so, but I know he’s entered her.  I see the older man slowly close his eyes in pleasure.  He begins fucking Lara in a steady, easygoing rhythm.

Helen’s hand begin to tremble.  I can’t see the older woman’s face, but her body looks more relaxed than before.  Lara’s tongue is working miracles.

And then Malcolm is plunging into Lara at light speed.  His strong hands dig into Lara’s flesh, and I see him grit his teeth and he opens up the throttle and gives her all he can.  Lara’s body is hammered forward, which in turn rocks Helen.  Both women are moaning loudly.

Malcolm thunders on.  His right hand rises, then smacks Lara’s ass, hard.  She gasps.

With a wordless cry, Helen yells out, her hands flying to Lara’s hair and trashing Lara’s carefully-assembled hairdo.  I see Helen’s legs kick, small, froglike kicks.  Those high heels might actually puncture the mattress if she’s not careful.

Malcolm sees his wife spasm, and he cums too.  Both Fairchildes on either end of Lara grunt and sweat and ride through their orgasms.  I think Helen is swearing out loud, but its impossible to be sure.

The sex explosion rides on for a little longer.  Malcolm goes the distance, then pulls out of Lara in a single, savage gesture.  He twists and topples onto the mattress, like a prizefighter felled by a single blow to the jaw.

Helen’s hands release Lara’s hair.  The older woman screams, “Stop!  Stop!  Enough!”

Lara lifts her head, and the two women make eye contact.

Her hands still trembling, Helen tells Lara, “Sleep!”

I’m amazed as Lara **_immediately_** goes to sleep.  Her eyes closes and she collapses right between Helen’s legs.  Her head actually rests on Helen’s leg as a pillow.  I’m not sure that looks comfortable, but neither woman complain.

Helen’s eyes roll back as she gasps for breath.  Her head drops back.  I see all the muscles in her body disengage as she becomes limp.

Everyone on the bed/couch are completely still.

I suddenly feel groggy myself.  Something in the back of my head warns me that I should stand, stay awake, fight this urge to sleep!  I try, but I can’t resist.

My own eyes close, and I tumble back into a dreamless slumber.

*************

Some time later, I feel someone sit next to me on the couch.

“Sleep…!” Helen’s voice murmurs.

A body collapses against me.  I feel soft hair spill over my neck and limp hands.  I smell sex.  Some part of me realizes: Lara must be leaning against me.

“There,” comments Helen, “she’s out.  She’ll stay down for a while.”

While my eyes are closed and my body still feels relaxed and warm and immobilized, I can suddenly hear quite clearly.  Bare feet approach Lara and me; that must be Malcolm.

“She was **_magnificent_** ,” the older guy exclaims.

“Yes, quite,” Helen agrees, her voice icy and detached, as usual.

Malcolm stoops to pick something off the floor.  “I have to have her again,” he says.

“Calm yourself, Malcolm,” Helen says coolly.

“She is the best we’ve had,” argues Malcolm.  “Her performance is incredible.  Don’t deny it.”  He sounds thoughtful.  “Both of these two succumbed to you pretty quickly.  Why do you think that is?”

I hear a cigarette lighter spark, and then smell a faint burning.  Helen exhales.

“Its no mystery,” she says.  “His situation is obvious.  He’s a rookie at a high-pressure investment firm where he has no idea what he’s doing.  Of course he’s a constant bundle of nerves.  Once the hypnosis offered him complete relaxation, he crumbled.”

“I don’t understand why it was necessary that he pleasured himself,” Malcolm says, his distaste evident.

“Ejaculation activates the pleasure centers of the brain,” replies Helen.  “It makes him relax even deeper.  His subconscious also associates the pleasure with my voice; that makes it harder for him to resist me.  Which could be useful later.”

“Hmmgh,” says Malcolm, not sounding convinced at all.

“Lara is harder to read,” Helen continues, after another draw on the cigarette.  “She’s from a family with many expectations.  She married beneath her, and then moved away from home, so there’s separation anxiety.  But I’m not entirely sure why she went under so quickly.”

“Or so easily,” adds Malcolm.

“Indeed,” Helen agrees.  “I think she hopes I will be a path to this coveted museum job, so there is an innate desire on her part to please me.”  The older woman sounds thoughtful.  “Perhaps that’s why she surrendered so willingly.  Hmm.”

“I want to keep her,” says Malcolm.

Helen exhales.  “Risky.  She’s married.  I’m not sure we can break that bond.”

“You’re inside her mind,” presses Malcolm.  “You’ll find a way.”

“Perhaps,” Helen contemplates.  “It would take many sessions, Malcolm.  I’ll need time.”

Dimly, I realize these people are somehow talking about Lara and me.  They sound like they are chatting about what to order for breakfast.

But I feel so relaxed, I’m not sure if this is a dream or not.  And strangely, I sort of like being under Helen’s control.

“Let’s move to the next phase,” says Helen.  I hear a soft _psssssht_ as she stabs out her cigarette.

And then I am aware that she is standing directly before Lara and me.  I feel Helen’s hand rest on my shoulder.

“David, Lara,” she says gently.  “You will both relax even deeper, responding only to my voice.  Deeper, David.  So much deeper, Lara.  In a moment, I will count from ten to one, and as I do, you will both forget what happened here tonight.  You will both be convinced we four had a nice, pleasant dinner together.  And Lara, I have additional instructions for you.”

Helen’s hand releases my shoulder, and I hear her speak only to the sleeping Lara.  I know these words are not for me, so I pay them no meaning.

Helen’s hand returns.  “And now, you will both forget,” Helen tells us.  “Ten…!  Nine…!”

*************

 


	3. Chapter 3

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man and a woman, and they take full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

The following morning, Lara and I sleep late.  Very late.  That’s a little weird; usually we both rise early.

Oh well.  We missed breakfast, but there’s always a diner somewhere.

“Want to go out for waffles?” I ask Lara as she comes out of the shower.

“With you?” she beams.  “Of course.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re sharing a fruit salad and strawberry waffles, and talking about our evening last night.  Helen and Malcolm seem a little weird, we agree, but deep down they’re nice people.  We had such a good time talking with them last night.  It almost seemed a shame when we had to go home.

“The best part,” Lara adds, “is that Helen thinks she might have some museum leads for me!”

“Well, be sure to follow-up, then,” I nod, reaching for the syrup.

“Funny you’d say that,” says Lara, looking thoughtful.  “I thought I’d pop up there and talk to her about it more today.  If you don’t mind.”

I shake my head.  If Helen Fairchilde can find my wife a job, I’m all for it.

*************

Lara and I return to 11C to continue unpacking.  After lunch, she leaves to visit with the Fairchildes and talk job-hunting strategy.  I take advantage of her absence to set up the TV the way I like it.

Sunday it is raining, so we resume unpacking.  And when we get bored, we decide to christen our bed.  I think that making love while its raining outside is really romantic, but that’s just me.

And then…

Its Monday morning.  Ugh.  Man, its painful to return to the office after such a great weekend.

*************

I reach my desk about 7:00 am and get right to work.  Over the weekend, something occurred to me, and I want to play out my hunch.

It takes me a few hours, but quickly I realize:  All of our tech companies are essentially in competition with one another.  They are all essentially making the same product, and no one company has yet cornered the market.

I need to confirm.  I call each company, asking pointed questions about their products.  This is where my double undergrad major of Computer Science is starting to pay for itself.  By the end of the day, I’m sure:  We’ve invested in companies who are fighting one another.  That’s why the tech portfolio is sinking.

So to fix the problem, we should pick the best company, dump the rest, and rediversify.  I start drawing up ideas.

Right at 6:00 pm I call Lara to tell her I’ll be late.  She doesn’t pick up.  That’s odd.  She was supposed to be home all day.  Could she have stepped out?

*************

It is past eleven when I make it home.  Lara is in her faux-silk nightgown, watching TV with a glass of wine.  She doesn’t look up when I enter.

I’m tired and cranky.  At work, I’m making good progress, but there’s still a long way to go.  Even if I was in bed asleep right now, I’d get at most six hours.

I glance around the apartment.  It doesn’t look like Lara has unpacked a damn thing.  Well, last night’s dishes are washed.  That’s something.  But the place is even messier than ever.

I hop over the open boxes scattered over the floor and bend over to kiss my wife on the cheek.  She barely responds.

“Rough day?” I ask, probably too sarcastically.

“What?” Lara says, looking at me as if noticing me for the first time.

“Forget it,” I grumble.  “I’m going to bed.”

She nods.

*************

By Wednesday, I present my theory and ideas to Frank.  He listens patiently, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“I see,” he pronounces when I finish.  “And you think we should buy these stocks instead?”  He carefully reads my list.

I wait on pins and needles.

“It looks good,” Frank says slowly, obviously thinking.  “Put together a formal proposal.  We’ll run it by the senior managers.  If they like it, you’re due for an Incentive Package.”

*************

“An Incentive Package!” I exclaim to Lara.  “Can you believe it?”

We are at La Trattorias’, an Italian place I know Lara fancies.  I snuck out of work at seven to get home and spring the news.

Lara smiles politely.  She asks, “What’s an Incen-”

“Its basically a bonus for a really good idea,” I interrupt.  “If you propose a change to the portfolio and they accept it, they make your idea policy **_and_** you and your collaborators get a $100,000 check!”

“But you don’t have any collaborators,” Lara points out.

“Exactly!” I cry.  “If they like my idea, we get a hundred grand!”

“That’s nice,” Lara smiles.

My own smile fades.  What is with Lara?  She seems so… distracted.

“That’s great,” Lara repeats, without enthusiasm.  She picks up her fork.

My smile fades somewhat.  “How about you?” I ask.  “Any luck on the museum front?”

Lara shrugs.  We eat in silence.

*************

I’m a little worried about Lara.  She is on-edge, distracted and prickly around me.  Maybe my absence from home has taken a bigger strain than I thought.

I submit my proposal to Frank, who had some comments, but promised to pass it along to the senior managers.  I can’t wait; I wonder how long it will take to get an answer.

The next night, I’m really in the mood.  With the proposal, its been a stressful week.  It would be nice to get some.  I light a few candles in the bedroom, dropping sexual hints like anvils.  I brush my teeth carefully, wishing I’d found a little time to hit the treadmill at least once this week.  Oh well.  Lara won’t care.

When I come out of the bathroom, Lara is on the couch in her flannel pajamas, the ugly plaid ones with the button-down top.  Hmm.  Not the negligee or sexy underwear I was hoping for, but whatever.  She is staring in space, and…

Ah.  Her hand is under her top and she’s absently fingering a breast.  I start to grow hard.

“Hey,” I say using the Sexy Voice, and clamor next to her.  I put a hand on her stomach, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Lara jumps.  “Don’t do that!” she snaps.

I withdraw a little.  “Hey, sorry,” I apologize.  “I was hoping we could… y’know…”

Lara’s brow wrinkles and her mouth thins.  “I’m **_so_** not in the mood,” she tells me flatly.

I’m taken aback, and feeling a little accused here.  “Seriously, was it something I said?” I ask, annoyed.

My wife scowls.  “You do what you want,” she says, and flicks on the TV.

Now I’m pissed.  Clearly Lara was aroused; why else play with herself?  So why the cold shoulder now?

But my wife seems determined to ignore me.  Disgusted, I retreat to the bedroom.

I try to get into that biography of John D. Rockefeller that my father recommended.  There’s nothing like getting into nineteenth century oligarchy when you get shot down for nookie, believe me.

I hear our front door slam.  What the hell?

I step out of bedroom.  Our tiny living room is empty.  The TV is still on, but no Lara.  She’s not in the bathroom, either.

Her shoes are still here, but her apartment keys are missing.  I don’t get it.

From the hallway, I hear the elevator chime ding.  I poke my head outside, but only see an empty corridor and the elevator doors close.  Whomever got on the elevator did it quickly.

On a hunch, I run to the elevator and watch the floor numbers.  The elevator car is rising up, past the twenty-something floors… the thirty-something floors… stopping at 41.  The penthouse.

Something like fear and suspicion grips me.  I stab the “Up” button, and wait for another elevator car.

*************

When I arrive on the penthouse level, the front door to the Fairchildes’ is slightly ajar.  I set my jaw, knock lightly, and then poke my head in.

Giselle, the younger maid, seems to be waiting in the foyer.  “Oh,” she says, slightly surprised.  “They’re up in their special room.  Do you need me to show you the way?”

Not knowing why I say it, I tell her, “Yes, please.”

Giselle beckons, then leads me into the Fairchildes’ lair.  We trek through the residence, passing the occasional servant as we go.  At the base of the master staircase, we encounter Adele, who also looks surprised to see me.

“I thought Mrs. Fairchilde was only summoning Mrs. Roth,” she says to Giselle.

“I guess ma’am changed her mind?” Giselle wonders.  Both maids regard me as if I’m a specimen in the zoo.

Adele shrugs.  “Mrs. Roth has been summoned here every day this week to go under ma’am’s voodoo.  Poor child probably thinks she’s a Fairchilde herself by now.”  To me, she says, “Up the staircase, honey.  Second door down the corridor.”

Both maids seem to think I can find the way.  They turn and leave.

I’m about call after Adele to demand to know what the hell is going on, when I hear a woman’s voice upstairs.  Helen’s.  She speaking in a continuous stream.

There’s… something about that voice.  It sounds both sweet and treacherous to me.  I ascend the staircase, following it, which brings me to that weird “talking room” I vaguely remember from when Lara and I were here.  I hesitate at the door, my heart pounding.  Why am I suddenly so nervous?

Helen’s voice is silken:  “Deeper and deeper, my dear.  Allowing yourself to drift so much deeper with every word I speak.  Allowing your thoughts to vanish and my words to replace what is in your mind.  As before, you are descending into complete relaxation, complete submission, and it feels so good.  So good, Lara.  Excellent…!”

At the mention of my wife’s name, I slide the panel doors open.

Helen and Malcolm are there, standing over Lara, who is seated in one of the plush easy chairs.  The Fairchildes are dressed in what I assume they consider casualwear: slacks, single-button shirt for Malcolm, white blouse for Helen, flat shoes.  Helen’s hair is down, cascading to her shoulders.  While she isn’t wearing makeup, she still looks beautiful.

The older couple hover over Lara, watching her intently.  Helen is holding Lara by the left wrist, and my wife’s arm is limply dangling in her grasp.  Helen is speaking quickly and rapidly, although there’s no indication Lara is responding to anything that is being said.

In fact, Lara is completely motionless.  Her eyes are shut, her face blank, her mouth slightly open.  As I watch, her eyelids tremble slightly, but otherwise, she makes no motion at all.

Malcolm glances up and sees me.  He puts a hand on Helen’s shoulder.

“Did you summon David?” the older man asks his wife.

Helen’s head shoots up, and her eyes lock on me.  Her mouth thins.

“David,” she commands in a voice of iron, “ ** _FREEZE._** ”

I’m not sure what happens next.  Every muscle in my body locks, becoming rigid and steel-like.  I can’t move my hands, my arms, my legs… I can’t even swivel my eyes or speak.  Astonished, I try as hard as I can to budge, even just step back.  But I am paralyzed.

Helen and Malcolm glance at one another, their expressions dark.

“We’ll have to accelerate the plan,” Helen says grimly.  She drops Lara’s floppy arm and walks right up to me.

I grow panicked as she nears me.  For a fleeting minute, I remember that video I saw in Frank’s office… the cobra and the mouse.

“Look at me, David,” Helen commands.  Own their own, my eyes look straight into hers.

Helen puts two fingers on each of my temples and begins rubbing them lightly in a circle.  There’s something familiar about this, but I can’t remember what.  Its like a golden energy is building up in my mind.

Helen begins speaking to me.

“You will forget, David,” she tells me.  “You will forget…”

*************


	4. Chapter 4

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man and a woman, and they take full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

I awaken in my own bed.  It is 4:53 am.  I am alone.

God, what a nightmare.  I don’t remember much, but…

Lara is gone.  Her side of the bed hasn’t been slept in.  What the hell is going on?

Confused and worried, I grab my phone and text “ **Where R U?** ” to Lara.

There is a soft rumbling on her bedside table, and I realize Lara’s phone is vibing.  She’s out and she didn’t take her phone?  That’s not right.

Sick with worry, I lie back on the bed, wondering what the hell to do.  Something is unquestionably wrong… but I don’t know what.  All I know is that the universe seems dark and seriously fucked up.

I lie in bed, wide awake and fraught with worry.  But Lara never appears.

Finally, at 6:30 am, I force myself into the shower and then off to the office.

*************

I arrive at the firm, and although it’s about 7:30, Frank has already left two voicemails.

So I poke my head in Frank’s office.  “Hey, come in,” he barks.  “Shut the door.”

I do so, wondering if I’m in trouble.

“Congrats, kid,” Frank grunts.  “Your proposal was accepted.  There will be an Incentive Package.”

My heart leaps.  Finally, some good news!

“But,” Frank warns, “keep this to yourself.  The other associates don’t need to know.  Understand?”

I don’t understand, but nod anyway.

*************

Lara isn’t home when I return from work, nor does it look like she ever came home.  She doesn’t appear the next day, nor the day after that.  I call the police, who ask me to fill out a Missing Person report.  I next call Lara’s parents, and leave an anxious voicemail.  No-one calls me back.

I’m worried sick, obviously.  Its not like Lara to disappear.  No-one on the Crestmark staff has seen her leave the building; I actually make Hector check the security footage.  So she must be here somewhere.  But where?

I throw myself into work.  What else can I do?  If Lara’s mad at me, she’ll surface and we’ll talk.  All I can do is wait until then.

*************

I am at the office when the firm broadcast email comes in.  Subject Line:  “ **Incentive Package Awarded for Tech Stock Adjustment.** ”

I open the email, curious and excited.  It reads:

**Congratulations to Ileana Carter, Austin Woodall, Frank Von Weise, and David Roth for their outstanding work on rebalancing the tech stock portfolio in the Atlantic Mutual Hedge Fund.  Thanks to their tireless work…**

I scan the rest of the email, a little confused.  This says that we are dropping the stocks I recommended to drop and buying the stocks I said we should buy.  In short, we are doing **_exactly_** what I wrote up in my proposal.  So why then…?

Ileana Carter and Austin Woodall are senior members of the firm.  In fact, I think Frank reports to Austin.  So they would have been the executives who would have reviewed my idea and actually made the decision to pull the trigger.  But this email makes it sound like the four of us all worked together equally and-

A second email pops in, this one from HR.  “ **Details on your Incentive Package** ”

I open it, starting to feel wary.  It says,

**Dear David,**

**Willow Crescent would like to award you and your Action Team with this Incentive Package in recognition of…**

Impatient, I skim.  At the bottom, I see:

**Distribution of the Benefits:**

**Ileana Carter  ::  45 hours, senior partner, recognition rate: 45%  --  Total Compensation:  $48,871.88**

**Austin Woodall  ::  45 hours, partner, recognition rate: 35%  --  Total Compensation:  $37,971.72**

**Frank Von Weise  ::  30 hours, managing associate, recognition rate: 15%  --  Total Compensation:  $10,988.72**

**David Roth  ::  20 hours, junior associate, recognition rate: 5%  --  Total Compensation:  $2,167.68**

**Congratulations, team!**

I stare at my monitor, bewildered and angry.  I just submitted my proposal a few days ago.  Frank couldn’t have put in 30 hours on this!  And Ileana Carter and Austin Woodall… for crying out loud, there probably wasn’t 45 hours between the time they-

I grit my teeth in frustration.  Frank makes a mid-six figure salary, and Ileana and Austin – whom I’ve never met – are multimillionaires several times over.  They probably won’t notice this bump in their paychecks.

But I billed over a hundred hours on this - not twenty - and all I get is a measly two thousand bucks???

*************

An hour later, I get a text message.  From Lara!

“ **I M in yur lobby** ,” it reads.  “ **Can U come down?** ”

I grab my suit jacket and sprint for the elevator.

On the ground floor, I spot my wife immediately.  She is wearing a formal pantsuit, dressed as if she is going to a job interview.  She smiles tightly when she sees me, but leans back when I try to kiss her.

“Let’s have lunch,” she says, and gestures toward the exit.

We walk side-by-side up Broadway, not touching or talking.  I make sideways glances at her every few feet, but she stares straight ahead.  I’m thrilled to see her, but she’s acting… I can’t place it.

We reach Barbounia, a Mediterranean restaurant I’ve passed many times.  Lara sweeps in, past the maitre’d who seems to have been expecting her.  My wife heads for a table in the back.  I crane my neck, and see there’s someone else already sitting there.

I don’t recognize this person right away.  Its Elizabeth Shell, Lara’s family’s lawyer.  She nods at me, all business.  I’m growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Lara sits beside Elizabeth.  Its obvious I’m to sit across from them.  No-one offers me a menu.

“We have to talk, David,” Lara says, her voice level.

My heart sinks with dread.  “What about?” I ask.

“You’ve changed,” Lara tells me.  “You spend so much time at the firm that I never see you anymore.  You’re-“

“ ** _You_** never see **_me_** anymore?” I echo in amazement.

Lara continues without blinking an eye.  “You’re not the same man I married.”

I lean forward, dumbfounded and angry.  “Are you kidding me?” I hiss.  “Baby-“

Elizabeth holds up a hand.  “Please, David.”

“Lara,” I say urgently, “I don’t know what has changed.  I don’t think I’ve changed.  Can’t you and I-“

“What about the other women, David?” Lara asks quietly.  “What about all the cheating?”

I stare at her.  “ ** _What are you talking about?_** ” I exclaim.  Heads start turning in our direction.  “ ** _What_** other women?  What are you saying???”

My head is spinning.  How is my life imploding like this?

“You’ve cheated on me from the very beginning,” accuses Lara, her voice calm, certain.  “I’ve known all along.  But now I can’t stand the sight of you.”

I scrutinize Lara’s face.  She is the woman I know and love… and yet she isn’t.  She is cold and distant.  She looks at me with a combination of distain and disappointment.  I’ve never seen her look like this before.

More importantly, nothing she is saying makes **_any_** sense.  I’ve cheated on her for years and she knew all along?  What the hell?  I love my wife, why – how – when would I cheat on her?  And even if I had cheated and she knew, why get married and **_then_** accuse me?  I’m hurt and confused.

My mouth doesn’t seem to work.  I gulp a sip of water, then say, “Lara… baby… I don’t know what you’re talking-“

“Its over, David,” Lara says curtly.

A dreadful silence settles over the table.

Lara looks down at her folded hands.  She stands up, dropping her wedding band on the table.  She leaves, never once looking at me.

But I stare after her.  As Lara reaches the door, I stand.  I have to race after her.

“David,” Elizabeth says sharply.

I look at the lawyer.  She is sliding a manila envelope across the table in my direction.  I know what document is in that envelope.

“This isn’t happening,” I say dumbly.

I sit, defeated.

Elizabeth doesn’t say anything at first.  When the waiter approaches us, she impatiently waves the boy away.

“David, you have to take that,” she says firmly, tapping the envelope.

Still not comprehending, I ask the first question that’s on my mind.

“Lara thinks I **_cheated_** on her?” I say, dumbfounded.

“Didn’t you?” Elizabeth shoots back.

Now I’m angry.  “That woman is the best thing that could have ever happened to me,” I declare, my eyes stinging with tears.  “How could I possibly cheat on her???”

Elizabeth hesitates.  “Well… Lara is convinced you did.”

I snatch the envelope, furious.

“There’s one more thing,” says Elizabeth.  “I’ll need your apartment key.”

“My fucking apartment key?” I hiss.

“Its not your apartment,” Elizabeth informs me.

Although I am brimming with rage and feelings of betrayal, I realize the lawyer is right.  The apartment is in Lara’s name.

“The key, please,” Elizabeth says firmly.  “If you do this the easy way, we can make arrangements for you to retrieve your belongings later today.”

Trembling with fury, I fish out my keychain and extract the demanded-for item.  I practically throw it down on the table.

“How’s Lara going to pay for that apartment?” I ask bitterly.

“Not that its your business now,” Elizabeth says, collecting the key, “but Lara has found a job at a prominent gallery.  Apparently Helen Fairchilde was able to arrange some introductions.  I’d advise you not to pursue the matter.”

Elizabeth stands, straightens her suit jacket, and leaves the restaurant.  I am alone.

*************


End file.
